Page 42 of Vengeful King

This feels like an invasion, him laying my life open like this. I know what he’s seeing—almost no contacts, barely any pictures, a handful of messages. It’s the life of someone with a chronically ill mother, someone with little free time to herself.

I don’t have friends to lean on. It’s just me, alone, struggling to make things work and take care of Mom.

He’s seeing too much. It’s like him looking through my phone means he’s seeing how alone I’ve been, how I don’t really have anyone.

He’s seeing that if I died, no one would notice. I’ve already disappeared and nothing has happened. This is just showing him that no matter what he does, no one will care.

No one.

He pauses and I hold my breath. I don’t know what he’s looking at, but I know what’s on my phone. The text from Mr. V, the man who gave me the money I borrowed. The one that sent me a time and place.

Shit.

Lachlan leans back against the door frame, his pose entirely casual, like he isn’t holding me hostage and looking through my phone. I almost think he’s not going to say anything, but then he does, his voice even and calm.

“What’s this about?”

I don’t answer. I wait, holding my breath, hoping that maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he didn’t find the lender; maybe he’s looking at the few photos I have from before my mother’s diagnosis.

But of course, I'm wrong.

“Twenty-two, fifty-six. Elm Avenue. Turn left. Six miles past,” Lachlan recites.

I wince. I can remember every bump in the road, every mile that seemed like a thousand as I went to meet the man I owed money to.

Lachlan raises an eyebrow. “Why were you meeting this person?”

It’s a simple question, really. I could just tell him. All I have to do is open my mouth and say,I owed him money.

But I can’t. I justcan’t.

My silence breaks whatever thread of calm he’s been holding on to. I can see the moment it happens, the moment his control snaps.

It sends a rush of adrenaline through me as he steps toward me, crowding into my space. My heart thuds, my mouth going dry as he gets close.

Despite the danger, all it does is remind me of his office. I know I should be scared, but my body doesn’t recognize that. All it knows is the memory of him kissing me, his hands touching me.

It can’t seem to decide between being afraid and being turned on.

I know he sees it in me. He’s so close that I see the light in his eyes when he recognizes it, when he notices my breathing get shallow and my face flush.

And then before I can react, his hand is on my thigh.

I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from moaning. I must be delusional; I have no idea why I'm reacting so strongly. But his hand is on my thigh, tracing up my skin, moving painfully slow. I can feel my entire body react to him. It’s a buzz beneath my skin, a humming potential.

He doesn't speak. I almost wish he would, wish I could tell if this is real or not. Maybe it’s all manipulation.

But there’s desire in his eyes that I can tell is real, a light that he can’t deny. It burns there as he looks down at me, his hand roaming my body.

I barely breathe, barely swallow. I just stand against the wall, my body trembling.

His hand moves up my side, sliding under the fabric of my dress. He brushes over my breast, and it takes all my strength not to make a sound. My head is swirling. His fingers stop, then pinch my nipple. It sends electricity through me. I inhale sharply and it feels like giving in.

The heat is running through my entire body. I’m so turned on I can barely think straight. I try not to show it, try not to do anything—but I can’t help it.

I can’t help the gasp that leaves my mouth when his hand cups my breast, squeezes and rolls my nipple. His other hand slides over my spine, resting just over my ass.

I can feel my breath come in thin bursts. Everything is so bright, my head is spinning, it’s all too much. I can’t untangle the fear I had for my life minutes ago from this.

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